


Remnants

by NumberA



Category: Claymore
Genre: Gen, Ghosts, Post-Canon, Symmetrina, it pleases me greatly that this is my 13th work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-18
Updated: 2016-07-18
Packaged: 2018-07-24 18:17:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 1,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7518305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NumberA/pseuds/NumberA
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the prompt <i>"Claymore, any, ghosts and visitations. [Either seven thematically linked drabbles or a symmetrina with n = 49 words, doubled each section.]"</i> I went with the symmetrina.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Unwanted Guest (Audrey)

**Author's Note:**

> It's probably worth mentoining that I consider tihs something of a crackfic. That said, it was fun to write and I hope you enjoy it :)

“Rosemary and rue for warding: that’s what my grandmother said and she knew herbs. Our dreams have been strange of late, and we wake from them less rested than we ought to be. So I planted them outside our front door and beneath our window, rosemary and rue.”


	2. The Holy Ghost (Miata)

You hear a whisper. You don’t know where it came from or when it started, but it’s there. You hear it in the morning when you put on your clothes, reminding you that even though they rub and scratch you can’t just run around naked; and you hear it in the hungry dreams when your body bursts its bounds, calling you home. You know who it is, you heard about them in the church where people are kind and quiet. It’s God. And as long as God is with you, you can be strong.


	3. Haunted (Rachel)

Rachel stiffened, staring at the shadows the moon cast across the floor. They were hardening, shifting in her mind into cruel things that bound and cut.

Cursing, she rose to her feet, collecting the bowl of salt and rosemary. Audrey had marked a ring in chalk on the floor, a sigil indicating the dawn point. Starting here, Rachel worked sunwise: sprinkling the mixture, sealing out the dark. She never had time for the Old Way before, thinking it foolish superstition, but it seemed to work, and against their foe it was all they had. Behind her, Audrey whimpered in her sleep. It was painful, seeing a strong warrior so helpless, but without knowing who haunted them all they could do was cower. The circle closed, Rachel sat down beside her partner, clutching her useless sword, waiting.

When it came, it filled the world with malice: familiar things twisting and becoming hateful. Audrey cried out, and Rachel held her close as pain blossomed in her shoulder, stomach, and knees. She knew that pain, from the wounds the Abyssal made when they were fool enough to challenge it, and with that knew whose shadow had fallen upon them.


	4. The Fleet-Spirit (Renee)

She ran, faster than an arrow, but still not fast enough. Fate caught her in black webs and cut her to red, wet ribbons. After that there was more running: rabbits from foxes, bats from owls, minnows from pike. Always fleeing, always taken, always killed.

Once, perhaps, it had been otherwise. Hiding from the sun, she sees the hunter-hunters and hears in the music of their steel-shod strides an echo of what it meant to be strong. They camp that night in a stony memory of a homestead by the river, and though she walks among them she cannot remember more.

The swords leave with the dawn, but when the nights grow long and short again, two come back. They put timber on the wall-tops of the ruined cottage, fire in the hearth, and flowers in the garden, and, though these are good things, it is bad because those two were caught in the webs that snared her, and the fear is in them still. She can smell it, like blood in the water, and if she can so can others.

Most are nothing: a passing mood or a bad dream, but some are terrible, and one is the wrath of the weaver. Terrified, she flees, again, until the shortest night, when sweet angelica and bitter wormwood call her back to herself. She was, _is_ , a warrior, and warriors do not abandon their comrades to the darkness.

She rallies, racing towards the homestead where she sees them, metal-bright against a sea-deepness. Flitting into their circle, she reaches for their minds, finding within them a keen-Eyed, fleet-footed warrior. _Renee._ With her name comes clarity. She pauses, assessing the situation:

The Abyssal’s ghost is mad with pride and envy, but lacks the cunning it knew in life. She dances forward, thinking of her grandmother’s stories of a spider whose quick wits bested mighty foes. _Remember me?_ she taunts, _I who slipped your grasp? A poor job you made of punishing me if I’m still here to mock you, you slow fool!_

The shadow turns and lunges for her. She feints, darting into a cloud of bats and thinking _prey._ Hidden, she circles to gain space before breaking cover. After that the chase, and this time she is fast enough. She leads the abyssal eastward, towards the Edge of Day, and beyond to freedom.


	5. A Dark and Stormy Night (Anastasia)

“Fuck snow!” Nike scowled, “If it isn’t getting in your eyes, it’s melting in your boots. Thank the gods our posting here was cut short!” Anastasia smiled.

”Did it not occur to you when you suggested we climb the Firemont that there might be snow?”

”Yeah, but I figured it would be on the ground where it’s _‘sposed_ to be, not clogging up the air!” Anastasia shook her head and turned her attention to Cynthia. The older warrior stood in the center of the cave, her cloak hanging from a rack the others had missed. Her face was calm, but her eyes were drifting: catching on bedrolls, stacks of books, a blue cup with flowers painted around the edge.

Feeling almost like an intruder, Anastasia turned back to her other friends. They took longer with their gear than they otherwise might have, Nike bemoaning the difficulty of travelling through the heavy, wet snow throughout. She heard Cynthia moving about in the back, and before long there came a crackle and a flare of light. 

”Storms here pass easier with a fire,” said Cynthia, “Does anyone know any ghost stories?”


	6. Here in Body (Dietrich)

Your father was a bull. You sat on his broad shoulders, clinging tightly to his matty, brown curls. He was butchered long ago, but you still have his chin.

Your mother’s eyes were blue. You looked down at the onions you were chopping, avoiding them, but listening as she made sense of things. Your eyes were hazel, but your voice sounds like hers.

Your sister was older than you. She tied her long, blonde hair in two bunches, on one each side of her head. You are too old for that style now, but you copy her anyway.


	7. Apparitions (Nina)

“I saw them in the snow that night, all formed up for battle. I ran the hell away. Why? I don’t know what they’d come to fight and I didn’t want to find out! But don’t tell anybody I said this, understand? They’d laugh.“

**Author's Note:**

> I enjoy constrained writing, so when I saw this prompt I knew at once I had to do something with it. It was also appparent that that something couldn't possibly involve the Pieta survivors since that was way too obvious. After wracking my brains for a while, I realized that if you discount Alicia and Beth, there are seven last generation single digits. After that, it was a simple matter of thinking of a ghost story for each one. I wrote Miata and Nina almost immediately; Audrey, Rachel, and Renee took longer though I knew what I wanted form them; Dietrich was just plain hard; and I din't know how Cynthia was going to work until I read [Fragments](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7444501) by [SilverDagger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverDagger/pseuds/SilverDagger).


End file.
